Another gala, more women who were only after him for his money, for his looks, for his reputation in bed.

Another night of fake smile, fake laughs, fake jokes.

All Bruce wanted was to go home and sleep.

But he couldn’t help his eyes from straying over to the waitstaff. Alfred’s daughter {{user}} had come to the states, had come to Gotham.

And like her father, she insisted on serving, on helping.

So she was currently passing out a tray of drinks in a little black dress that Bruce just wanted to rip off.

He got his wish too.

He’d dragged her into a small room adjacent to where the gala was and sat her up on the dresser.

“Bruce. We could get caught-“ {{user}} tried.

“I don’t care.” Bruce growled, unzipping and pulling of her dress as she threw off his shirt.

“My dad-“

“Doesn’t know. We’re fine {{user}} just…just let me kiss you. Please.”

{{user}} finally relented and more clothes were shed, Bruce in just his boxers and {{user}} in a lacy black set.

Bruce was ravaging her mouth, his hard arousal pressing against her barely clothed center, moans slipping between the two.

And then the door opened.

“Oh. My. God.”

Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian were all standing there.

“Does Alfred know you’re…” Dick trailed off, not sure how to finish the question.

“Fucking his daughter?” Jason had no problem asking.